


Water

by Musings_of_a_Monster



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, Gen, I don't know that I should call it a panic attack, Javert's mind is in a spiral, Mental Illness, Purgatory, blatant id fic, it's definitely some kind of episode, like I said id fic, very minor unintentional self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musings_of_a_Monster/pseuds/Musings_of_a_Monster
Summary: "I am washing, I am washing, I am washing my hands. There is so much blood. There is so much blood, but I can’t see it. I am told it isn’t there."
Relationships: Javert & Jean Valjean
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Water

I am washing, I am washing, I am washing my hands. There is so much blood. There is so much blood, but I can’t see it. I am told it isn’t there. I do not think they would lie to me; they are so much more than me. Maybe they mean that no blood is there that can be washed away. But still, I know it is there. I know. Maybe I am wrong, but even if I am wrong, if I wash well enough, I might be able to make myself believe the blood I cannot see is gone. They grant me the water. I wash until I _can_ see the blood. I must cry out. In horror? In triumph?

They stop me then. Their hands (can I call them hands?) are gentle, but firm. _Enough, now,_ they say, and their words are kind. Too kind. I cannot call them too kind because that implies that they are wrong and that I am right and they cannot be wrong. At least, they cannot be wrong in a way that means that I am right. I am so wrong. I have always been so wrong.

I am sorry, I am so sorry. It means nothing, to be sorry. My eyes sting and I cannot see any more than shape and shadow and I cannot stop. The shame can no more be washed away by the water within me than the blood can be washed away by the water without.

_It means very much,_ they say. Was I speaking aloud? Do they hear me even if I don’t? _But what use is shame now? Except to hurt?_

 _Shouldn’t I hurt?_ It is hard for me to look at them. It is terrifying in a way I cannot describe. But it is becoming less so, and they tell me so often that I don’t have to be afraid.

_What use is it to hurt now?_

_I should hurt,_ I say, _I don’t deserve—_ I clamp my mouth shut. The thought is blasphemous, but it is there because I am so wrong and I am so unclean. The thought: I don’t deserve to be here. Because I deserve so much worse. Because there is no mercy for something like me. But here I am.

_Of course you do_ , they say, never angry. Never anything but kind, and that also hurts even though I know it is not supposed to. They release my hands, and all the blood on them is invisible again.

When he comes, I think I am mad, even here. Again, my thoughts are blasphemy, because I think how he does not deserve to be here either, but for a different reason. I find I still have instincts. I follow them because I do not know what else to follow because there is no direction here, no apparent law.

I stand behind him, again. My hat is in my hands though I do not remember having a hat to have in my hands. He is speaking to another, and I wait. At the other’s gesture he turns and I apologize, again, for different reasons than those years ago but the feeling is exactly the same except maybe worse. He does not interrupt, he waits for me to finish, and holds out his hand.

I stare at it, like a fool, like I don’t know what it is. But I am worse than a fool and I am even more afraid to touch it than I was then those years ago, but he is not moving. He is not going to move until I take it and so I do.

Everything collapses in me like rotted scaffolding and the water inside that tries to wash away the shame comes and it magnifies it and it hurts so much and I welcome it because finally I am feeling the kind of pain that I deserve.

But he steps closer, to hold me up.

_Of course I forgive you,_ he says, though I did not ask him to, _Why wouldn’t I? How couldn’t I?_

I cannot speak. I am only thinking of how I am ruining his yellow autumn jacket.

_It’s okay, now, Javert,_ he says, _Truly, it is._

It feels like the water within me is beginning to do what it has meant to.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I'm still here. Still working on my other fic, but like *gestures to the world at large* it's hard to even focus on classwork, much less create anything.
> 
> Hope this isn't too OOC. I just...had to get this out.


End file.
